


Amounting to Nothing

by BlueCollarTweeker



Category: Happy Tree Friends
Genre: AU, Abuse, Aggresion, Alternate Origin Story, Angst, Daddy Issues, Dark, Downward Spiral, Drama, Emotional, HTF - Freeform, Happy Tree Friends - Freeform, Mondo Media, Psychological Trauma, Riches to Rags, Sad, Self destruction, Survival, Tragedy, mature language, mature themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25273237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCollarTweeker/pseuds/BlueCollarTweeker
Summary: (Downfall of a conflicted rodent.) A riches-to-rags which follows Handy the beaver from Happy Tree Friends in an alternate origin story.target audience:  those who enjoy character based plots with lots of angsty psychology............."PSA" ... This story follows a small minded character who makes verbal slurs and attacks towards certain groups of people (physically disabled, mentally handicapped, different, ETC.) As the writer I don't agree with these ideals nor do I aim to encourage them :p
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Amounting to Nothing

__

_'You ain't never gonna amount to nothing.'_

Handy gargled a chunk of snot from the back of his throat just before spitting it to the side through his buck teeth. It splat to the concrete below, and it might've even sizzle under normal circumstances, but today was overcast and gloomy. The air was a subtle cold breeze, mixing with the wet saltiness of the ocean. His usually bright ginger pelt would've been glowing like copper wire, but instead it was damp and dark with moisture.

Standing on the dock, waiting, Handy couldn't tell if he was wet from sprinkling rain or the mist of the waves before him. He didn't care either way, _hot, cold, dry, wet,_ it didn't matter. All that mattered was that the job gets done – and done right.

That reasoning of his was the reason for his current situation. Here, standing on a dock with his arms crossed, fingers tapping his biceps and back facing a crane rigged boat bobbing in the water - kept in range only by 2 thick ropes, he waits.

He rolls his eyes impatiently, a small frustration building up as his lips curl tightly. He could've been gone by now, maybe even back, finished the job. But no. His boss, _once again_ , had to prove to _him_ what little faith in _him_ he has. ' _You can't do a job like that alone, especially in weather like this. That's the perfect recipe for an accident._ '

So.... he's stuck. Schedule already delayed – the last thing he needs for his career's image – just waiting for some slow ass to arrive. His usual work buddy would've accompanied him, but he turned the job down, blabbing about how the place was haunted – somebody apparently died at the oil rig, or whatever..

Handy wasn't superstition, not even a little – and for his pal to tuck tail like this was ridiculous, pathetic even. Maybe his pal wasn't such a great guy after all. He couldn't help but feel a little nip of betrayal, which quickly converted to even more agitation.

Grimacing, he looks down at his watch. It was getting late, too late. His destination sat too far out-sea not to have left already.

He taps his foot while tightening his crossed arms, eyes scanning across the barren parking lot ahead. They catch the rusty color of an old blue sedan rolling in.

_That better be that slow ass or I'm going by myself._

He wants to sigh, but it feels like he has only half his breath. This was a big deal, and whoever that late asshole was had no clue or care about that – just like his old man.

His jaw goes askew and he grinds his teeth for a moment.

From a distance, the sedan parks at a sloppy angle - double lane occupying and all - its engine sputtering to a halt with an airy wheeze.

Handy stands firm, arms still crossed as he squints towards the car.

A pale blue furred … moose? Whatever it was, it had thin antlers that were mismatched in different direction, like a birth defect or something – it emerged from the car. It scratched its behind, yawning with a long stretch, and only after did it take notice to Handy. With a few blinks, it's lanky tall figure approaches the beaver.

It bears a quirky smile as it greets him, waving a hand, its voice congested with a slur. “Hello! I'm Lumpy. You must be the guy?”

It was close enough to see clearly, _it_ was a he and Handy found it too easy to judge. An ugly looking creature wearing the utmost ridiculous attire: Pink flip flops, red _short_ shorts and a greasy shirt all perfectly complimented with stray hairs from the scruff of its long face. _Creepy pedophile vibes anyone?.._

The beaver rose a brow towards the moose as he mocks back in an overly retarded voice. “Yeah, iM TH _e guY.”_

Lumpy doesn't react to the jab, but grins instead. “Handy Randy right!? The handiest beaver in town?” His grin turns more dark. “Haha, I pissed on that statue you built in town. Who knew you made such great urinals.” Now he looks cocky, eyes half slits.

Handy wasn't sure if the moose was lying or not, but it was aggravating – he worked hard on that statue, one of the few things he's been praised for. But he couldn't let it show and he doesn't as he stoically returns. “Sounds like something your type would do.” His chin juts out to indicate Lumpy's shorts.

The moose yawns, seeming unaffected as he reaches into his pocket pulling out a bag of corn chips. Opening them as loudly as possible – crackling harsh to the ears - he begins to munch on their inner contents with his mouth open, crumbs littering his chin and chest as they cling to facial hair and fabric. A tar-like mixture of saliva and oatmeal corn chips turns stringy in his mouth as some drips down the corner. A foul stench wafts towards the beaver, grossly hot like the rotten-egg steam of a geyser.

Handy couldn't help the disgusted look that formed on his features. Nobody knew _this type_ better than him. It was his goddamn old man all over again. He didn't need to close his eyes to see it, it was burned behind his eyes, polluting everything he saw.

_Itching his sweaty nasty feet while his pants fall down. Then he'd scratch his asshole, smell his fingers and sit back on his oil stained sofa. He'd half heartedly wipe his hand on his pant leg only to finger his cold pasta into his mouth._

_Fucking disgusting.._

The beaver scoffs with a grimace, turning his head away towards the boat behind him.

The blue moose seems pleased with the reaction as he chuckles and looks further relaxed with an even cockier grin/chewing face. He thinks he won.

_This_ is what he has to spend a boat trip to an oil rig with? Now he was pissed at his buddy, this was going to be miserable and it was all his fault. He tucked tail, he's the reason for this kind of retarded replacement. Betrayal at its finest – and he wasn't being dramatic, right? _UGH!_

Handy growls and looks at Lumpy with a mean side glance. He flexes his muscles as his crossed arms tighten and he struts to close the distance between them.

He was far more intimidating than a retarded mule with noodle arms. Respect should be easy to demand. Handy gains confidence as his chest raises.

The beaver attempts to get in the Moose's face, but Lumpy is a whole head taller – only further infuriating the Beaver. Handy sticks a calloused hand out, jabbing it into the moose's chest as his words jab along. “Listen retard!-There's a long ass boat trip ahead on _my boat_ not to mention and there's no room for down-syndrome style chewing aboard!” He grabs the bag from Lumpy - ripping it out from his hands and chucks it to the side. It falls into the ocean, chips making a mess.

Lumpy's relaxed face is slapped with a flinch to anger; his chewing stopped, mouth snapped shut with gritted teeth, hands frozen in motion - still where they originally were. He scowls down at the beaver for a moment, and his hands drop to his sides, fists. He opens his mouth to say something – the foul stench following-

-But Handy didn't let him. The beaver flexes his muscles as he continues, adjusting his yellow hardhat above his eyes to scowl back. “That's rule 1. Rule 2 is shut the fuck up until we get there.” He backs off, with a final jab as he swipes his hand away from the moose's chest, and struts away towards the boat.

The moose is left behind to mutter something under his breath – it sounded something along the lines of: _short temper bitch, hater of chips._

_Who's won now, retard?_ Handy smirks only a little as he crouches beside the dock's cleats, unhooking the ropes that tethered the vessel to them.

He holds the ropes in his arms as he long steps over the gunwale and into the boat's main interior with a thud from his boots. He neatly puts the ropes where they belong and stands up to glare at Lumpy over his shoulder.

Lumpy was where he left him, still in the parking lot – arms crossed. He meets gazes with the beaver and glares back for a moment. Handy could hear a slight grunt come from him. The moose rolls his eyes and walks over to the boat looking more annoyed than anything.

Handy turns his back on his temporary coworker again, and leaves to the control room – located at the front of the vessel.

_Fine_ , they haven't hit it off so well – at all.

He opens the door and enters the cabin.

_But who cares. No one can waste time with an asshole like that._

He pulls a set of keys out from his baggy pocket as he approaches the controls.

_Assholes never change._ Handy knew that more than anybody – his damn old man never changed, _same_ _type_. _It was doomed before it even started._

The ship has a subtle wobble as Lumpy climbs aboard.

_Enough about him-both of them._

The ginger beaver growls and shakes his head just a bit as his hand inserts the key, preparing to start the engine.

_I'm gonna need some coffee._

__


End file.
